


Hemispheres of a Whole

by richardthepassiveaggressiverooster



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 08:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14516052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richardthepassiveaggressiverooster/pseuds/richardthepassiveaggressiverooster
Summary: Lucy is too many things. It’s simpler with Garcia Flynn.





	Hemispheres of a Whole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gorgeousnerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgeousnerd/gifts).



> look I am a simple human being. This fic is totally unnecessary fluff because I had 30 minutes and wanted to write something. post-2x06 - no details that make it non-canon in 2x07! :)

Lucy’s sincere when she tells Wyatt she wants him to be happy. She does. That’s the selfless part of her speaking: the good daughter, the straight-A student turned history professor, the girl who skipped prom to go to debate practice. The same girl who surrenders her room so Rufus and Jiya can get some alone time, and who passionately entreaty Jessica to give Wyatt a second chance.

The problem is that Lucy’s not *just* that girl, and ever since her tenure with Rittenhouse, more of her personality is being consumed by this darkness—this selfishness—and she’s not even certain it’s a bad thing. The selfishness drove her to kill an innocent man (who Emma surely would have killed had Lucy not), but it also drove her to save the would-be victims of the Salem Witch Trials, and it helped Hedy Lamarr become greater than Bill Gates.

Selfishness isn’t *always* bad.

But sometimes it’s inconvenient. Lucy can’t help but feel bitterly jealous when she hears Jessica panting Wyatt’s name, much the same way that Lucy did in Hollywood. She can’t help but feel annoyed that Wyatt genuinely wants to act like they’re still friends when seeing his stupid handsome face and his big reassuring hands makes her simultaneously frisky and angry.

How dare he be satisfied, while Lucy is still aching with the hollowness he left between her thighs?

So yes, Lucy is sincere when she tells Wyatt she wants him to be happy. She means it when she tells him he deserves it.

He does deserve it.

But dammit, so does Lucy.

That’s why she grabs the bottle of vodka, rises from the pre-Cold War couch she volunteered to sleep upon, and raps a nervous beat onto Garcia Flynn’s door with her knuckle.

It’s the good girl who struggles to meet his eyes when he answers, and the selfish girl who gives him the apologetic #sorrynotsorry smile once she does.

He steps back, he gestures. He invites Lucy to come inside.

And it’s not the good girl who accepts his invitation.

Both hemispheres of Lucy, daughter of Rittenhouse and history professor, feel incredibly awkward in Garcia Flynn’s bedroom. He just moved in but there are signs of him everywhere. All those scattered history books. The guns. When did Agent Christopher give him more guns? The journals, the notebooks, the pens and rulers and plans that he’s left scattered everywhere.

He’s a mad genius, an artist. His personality has swelled to fill the bunker the same way that Flynn’s presence fills every room he enters.

“Well?” Flynn asks, expectant. Asking for Lucy’s judgment now that her wandering eyes have inventoried the scraps of his life as a fugitive.

Who’s she to cast the first stone? He’s not all one thing, either.

She lifts the vodka bottle. “Got glasses?”

“No,” he says.

Lucy takes a swig from the mouth. She offers it to Flynn, and he does the same. His lips linger upon the glass. He’s watching her.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” Lucy says. He has to be wondering which woman has invaded. Is she going to talk to him about history, strategy? Is she going to climb him like a Croatian redwood and take advantage of the unspoken offer he’s been making from the moment he donned prison orange?

Flynn must know that there is a very selfish (and somewhat drunk) Lucy thinking about the needs he can fill for her.

The vodka sloshes as he lowers it. “I’m not wondering,” Flynn says.

Lucy puts her hand on the bottle’s neck. Her fingers rest on his.

His expression shifts, calculating.

“Sit with me,” he says.

“I don’t want to sit,” Lucy says. Her hands are climbing his shirt, looking for the neckline, looking for shoulders to hold onto. It hasn’t been very long since she peeled Wyatt’s clothes off his body, finding the shapes of his scars with her lips, shuddering over the idea of wounds he’d suffered.

Lucy bets that Flynn has a lot of scars too.

She’s on her toes, she’s tipping back her head, she’s trying to kiss someone who’s ten feet taller than her who once held her hostage and let Wyatt think she was dead.

Flynn does not kiss her.

He takes her wrists gently. “This is the second bottle, isn’t it?”

It’s actually the third for the week. But yes, it’s the second for the night. What does it matter?

“Please, Garcia,” Lucy says. She is so much shorter than him but all their lines seem to have been contoured for each other. She fits well against the frightening breadth of his chest. She is small enough to fit through all the cracks in his armor, if only he will let her take what she needs from him.

“You’re drunk,” he says.

“Only a little.” (She’s really, really drunk.)

Flynn takes another drink, long and slow, as if thinking about it. Thinking about Lucy. He gasps and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sets the bottle on his counter with a very satisfying thump.

Her heart skips a beat when his hands spread across her back, urging her to rest against his heart.

“I’m sorry, Lucy,” he murmurs into her hair in that low growl. His breath is warm. His hands can be steel shackles, she knows, but right now they are the only thing keeping her upright. “But you need to rest.”

She shudders out a painful sigh. Heat plucks at her eyes and her cheeks burn, and it’s only a little bit thanks to the vodka.

Frankly, Lucy is too drunk to fight Flynn when he lifts her into bed—a lot like being lifted out of the Lifeboat by him, really—and she would be too drunk to care if he filled her hollow parts, literally speaking, but he doesn’t try.

He settles the full length of himself alongside her, and he’s just…there.

And when Lucy wakes the next morning, there are no longer two of her. There is only one. A whole woman. Ugly and flawed and beautiful and smart. The entirety of her is resting against Garcia Flynn’s chest, where she spent an unsullied night of sleep, and his eyes are already open, as though he spent hours awake to watch her.

He gives the smallest smile when he realizes she’s awake too.

“Breakfast,” he says. “Let’s go get breakfast.”


End file.
